


To serve the self-crowned King: Even if it hurts

by MadeItUp



Series: To serve the self-crowned King [3]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: An increasingly flimsy plot, Anal Play, Blow Jobs, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Diverges from end of season 1, Jim has worked out what he wants, Kissing, Light Sadism, M/M, Oswald remains his own worst enemy, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Smut, gobblepot, lots of talking, threat at gun point, threat at knife point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 05:29:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21350998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadeItUp/pseuds/MadeItUp
Summary: Oswald might be holding out on Jim after their last encounter, but patience isn't exactly one of Jim Gordon's virtues.When he barges into the middle of a business meeting in Oswald's new premises, it's clear Jim has every intention of finishing what they started. The only problem is that he's no longer the one calling the shots.And Oswald has a price in mind as payment for being arrested...“When I ask a question, I expect an answer,” Oswald said, voice chill. “If you’re not here on business…?”“Then the alternative is pleasure.” Jim had holstered his gun, his hands resting on his hips as he looked at Oswald. “Yours, obviously.”
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot & Butch Gilzean, Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon
Series: To serve the self-crowned King [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1510346
Comments: 13
Kudos: 31





	To serve the self-crowned King: Even if it hurts

**Author's Note:**

> This has taken on a life of its own. Neither of these idiots can work out who's in charge because they're too lusted up to make any sensible decisions, and Jim is definitely getting the worse deal out of their arrangement. (Poor Jim.)
> 
> I continue to be clueless about both titling and tags, so thanks for your patience :)
> 
> CW: Both a gun and a knife are used as threats for sexual ends (although both parties consent)

The tenement marked a decline in luxury, but the basement office had been made serviceable, the room dressed as befitted the status of its occupant. Silk rugs covered the concrete floor and high-backed chairs lined walls painted a green deeper than the darkest depths of Gotham River. At the end of the room, beneath the long rectangular windows level with the pavement above, sat a broad mahogany desk and next to that was the chimney breast, the hearth lit for warmth and light and the hint of danger that came with a naked flame.

Wherever the eye roamed it would catch a flourish of wealth or strength - a stolen painting in a heavy frame, a wicked collection of what could have been coal-dusted pokers, could have been crowbars - and no one could be left in any doubt that Penguin remained the most powerful man in Gotham.

And the most irritable.

Incompetent amateurs had already fired his hair-trigger temper several times that morning, exiting the premises bloodied, scared and uncertain of what it was that they’d done wrong. 

One week since Oswald had crawled out from the wreck of a squad car and still Jim Gordon haunted his dreams, lurked in the back of his mind, ever-ready to remind him of how close he’d come to having everything he wanted…

Darting a glance round the empty room, Oswald propped his chin on his fist and gazed down at the string of unanswered messages Jim had sent.

_Where are you? We need to talk._

_ I’m serious. _

_ I didn’t call it in, Oswald. I got back to the table and Harvey turned up. What was I supposed to do?_

_ They moved me back onto street duty for letting you get away._

He’d sent a photo, his face out of shot, GCPD uniform as crisp and sharp as that first time in his apartment.

_Thought I’d give you a visual on the uniform._

The sight provoked a reflexive coil in Oswald’s belly, his body remembering Jim’s hands searching his body, closing around his wrists tight enough to hurt. “_I heard that you want to fuck._” Jim’s hand around his cock, the neatly buttoned cuff of his shirt…

Oswald took a wavering breath and swiped through to the next picture, angled the same as the last, Jim’s shirt unbuttoned all the way, exposing a shadow of a V-shaped valley heading down towards his waistband.

What would it be like to dip his tongue into that shadow and follow it all the way down?

Oswald wrestled with the idea, wondered if he’d be able to turn it into reality. So far Jim was the one who’d been leading, Oswald sharp enough to follow his steps, but touching another man, drawing the same sounds from his throat as his own… the thought might thrill, but the reality was a risk and Oswald wasn’t prepared to entertain the possibility of disappointment.

Towards the left of the shot, Jim held back the fold of his shirt to show a mottling of angry bruising across the ribs.

_Thanks for this, by the way._

The third and final picture of the series was different. The camera held closer to Jim’s body, belly button at the top of the frame, a treasure trail of hair drawing the eye down to where the smart black pants fell open so Jim could rest his fingers over the erection visible beneath the cotton of his boxer shorts, his thumb tucked over the waistband as if about to pull it down.

_Aren’t you curious about what you missed?_

“You really need to get laid.”

Oswald swiped the phone off the desk and onto his lap, scowling at Butch who’d arrived so quietly and was now helping himself to a drink from the cabinet.

Layering anger over the embarrassment, Oswald lashed out a stinging. “You want to be careful of presuming too much.”

Butch didn’t respond beyond plonking a cut-glass tumbler of whisky on the blotter in front of him.

“Sure.” He took one of the chairs by the desk. “Being careful should keep me safe when your frustrated ass isn’t above putting a bullet through my gut just for looking at you wrong.”

Oswald ground his teeth and took a sip of his drink.

“You know you can pay for sex, right?” Butch carried on, extending a finger to point at where Oswald’s phone had been returned to his pocket. “There’s men out there with faces prettier than the one missing from those pictures.”

Before he was even aware he’d reached for it, Oswald’s fingers closed around the dagger he used as a paper knife.

“Really?” Butch raised his eyebrows. “You’re going to stab me for knowing you’ve got a thing for James Gordon?”

“I’m going to stab you for looking at my phone -”

“Then maybe stop getting it out every time I’m in the room, huh?”

“- and I _don’t_ have a thing for Detective Gordon. Stop talking.”

A direct instruction meant Butch couldn’t do otherwise. _Good._

Oswald had paid for sex before - well, oral sex - and the transaction wasn’t one he wished to repeat. He preferred to trade in favours and threats; blood and money; not sex. Although he’d be perfectly happy to threaten it out of Jim if he had the chance…

Butch was looking at him again, brows raised, like he knew exactly where Oswald’s thoughts had gone.

“_What?_” Oswald snapped.

Butch sighed. “You really want to know what I’m thinking?”

“No.” And almost immediately, a grudging, “Fine. _Yes._”

“I’m thinking that I’ve seen this before. Criminals falling for cops - cops for criminals.” Butch shook his head and took a swig of his drink. “Never works. People on opposite sides of the law make bad bedfellows.”

“Just as well Jim is nothing more than a friend, isn’t it?”

“You tell yourself that,” Butch murmured into his glass. “And we’ll both pretend to believe it.” 

Changing the subject before Butch pushed him too far, Oswald ran through his plan for the next meeting and the two of them finished their drinks, waiting for the capos to arrive. Tommy Bones was first through the door, then three others, each handing Butch an envelope, the contents of which he thumbed through before stashing in his inside pocket. Once everyone was seated in a semi-circle of chairs around the desk, Oswald came round to the front to stand, leaning his weight back on the desk, a king holding court with the men who did his bidding. 

What he needed was a scapegoat for the Fuel Bar fire - someone he could toss to the GCPD to get them off his back so he could return to more salubrious surroundings. The four men he’d called were here to decide which one of them it would be. 

If they took too long, Oswald had every intention of providing little motivation at the point of his paper knife.

Things got heated, loud, but they were progressing towards a conclusion when the door swung wide on its hinges, slamming against the wall.

As the capos reached for firearms that had been left at the door, Butch stood, gun aimed unerringly at the chest of the man who’d interrupted them.

“You’re a hard man to get a-hold of, Oswald Cobblepot.”

Jim Gordon. Not in uniform, or one of suits he wore for work, but in the two-piece that Oswald had gifted him, tailored to perfection.

“Detective Gordon.” Oswald gestured for Butch to stand down. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“There is no ‘we’. I came here to talk privately.”

“I’m busy.”

“That so?”

In a move so smooth there was no chance of anticipation, Jim drew his gun from the holster at his hip and fired. The bullet splintered the leg on Tommy Bones’ chair so that it collapsed beneath him, Tommy sprawling to the floor with a shout. Another shot, another chair. Amid the confusion of men on the floor and the ones leaping from their seat, Butch barged forward, gun up once more, facing off against Jim.

“Looks like you might have to cut your meeting short, Penguin…” Jim said. “Unless you want Gilzean to pay a visit to Gotham General.”

But as Butch scowled, his head tipping to the side the way it did when he was about to get serious, Oswald rolled his eyes.

“You have a point. Things were getting boring, after all. Frankie, you’re the man for the job.” He clicked at Butch and pointed at the wiry man still scrambling up from the floor. For a moment, it looked like Butch might attempt a rebellion, then he turned his gun from Jim and aimed it at Frankie. 

“We have a deal?” Oswald asked and Frankie nodded. “Good. Now leave us. All of you.”

Between Oswald’s brittle mood and Jim’s gunslinging, no one seemed anxious to stay. Butch was the last out, pausing to look at Jim and give Oswald a reproachful shake of the head. Then he shut the door.

Keeping his gun on Oswald like there was even the faintest chance of escape, Jim reached over and turned the key in the lock. As he turned back, Oswald made a careful study of his clothing, admiring the cut of the jacket across his shoulders, the way the pants hugged the line of his thighs. He was wearing the whole outfit: the heavy cotton shirt, the tie with its umbrella embroidered at the tip in a purple a shade darker than the silk of the tie.

A subtle stamp of ownership.

“I didn’t buy you that suit for you to waste it on the day job,” Oswald said.

“Who said I was here to work?” Jim moved closer, gun still raised. There were traces of a fading bruise on his jaw and flecks of scabbed cuts peppering the left side of his face.

Oswald stared into the depths of the barrel, then at Jim, a sceptical slant in the way he raised his eyebrows.

“Really? Are you going to fuck me at gun point?”

“Would you like me to?”

He would, but Oswald banked the idea for later, when it was safe to think about it, when Jim wouldn’t see.

“Put the gun away.”

“That isn’t a no.” Jim’s gaze was as steady as the hands cradling the gun, three, slow steps and the end of the barrel nudged Oswald’s chest, right over his heart. 

Oswald held still. Waited.

Slowly, the barrel moved up, over the collar of his waistcoat and up the silk of his tie until the sight notched under chin, sending a weight sinking rapidly from chest to belly to crotch. Fear and lust melded together and made the more powerful for it.

Right then Jim could have asked anything of him and Oswald would have to give it. Would have to let Jim fuck him any which way he wanted, or obey a command to drop to his knees and tongue Jim’s asshole, slip as many finger inside as Jim could take and Oswald would have met his demands with a shame-fuelled anger, cock so hard it would hurt.

But Jim asked nothing.

Oswald drew back, parted his lips and raised his eyebrows in challenge. 

For a moment, Jim hesitated, then lifted the gun to rest on Oswald’s bottom teeth, metal clacking on enamel. Jim’s breath came in furious waves as he frowned at Oswald’s mouth, then into his eyes. He couldn’t hold the threat for longer than a few seconds before he withdrew, shifting his grip so that he only held the gun in one hand, trailing it almost tenderly down Oswald’s jaw, then his body, skimming over his belt and across the swell in his pants.

Swinging his arm to the side, Jim pulled the trigger.

Nothing but the metallic click of an empty chamber.

“Might have used a few bullets persuading your men at the front door to let me in,” Jim said, reloading from the contents of his pocket.

Oswald watched, waited for his pulse to slow. When he thought about this later, that gun would be loaded and they’d both feel the fear.

“Why are you here, Detective?”

That made him wince, like he’d forgotten the choice he’d made last time they were together. Rejection (and arrest) wasn’t something Oswald took lightly, but Jim had shown his hand - those thirsty messages, hunting Oswald down and forcing his way into the room at gun point…

The one who came crawling wasn’t the one with the control.

“When I ask a question, I expect an answer,” Oswald said, voice chill. “If you’re not here on business…?”

“Then the alternative is pleasure.” Jim had holstered his gun, his hands resting on his hips as he looked at Oswald. “Yours, obviously.”

For a moment, Oswald’s mind clouded with thoughts of his come spilling through Jim’s fingers, those fingers thrust into his mouth and the kisses they’d stolen in the cloakroom, how good it felt to have Jim all over him, all to himself. Thoughts that he shoved aside.

This was Oswald’s territory, and Jim was wearing a suit that Oswald had paid for.

Now it was Jim’s turn to pay. For everything.

Oswald said nothing, merely held Jim’s gaze and leaned back against his desk, hands resting on the edge. Since Jim wanted him enough to come all the way to his office, he could be relied upon to make it a few steps further.

One, two… and _bingo._ Smooth strides made with the stealth of a predator until Jim was close enough for Oswald to smell his aftershave - something cheap and masculine, the smell of men’s locker rooms and shower-fresh skin.

One kiss. Oswald could permit himself that.

Jim was the one to lean in, lips pressing against Oswald’s in a couple of closed-mouth kisses, before parting, inviting the same in return so he could run his tongue over Oswald’s, drawing him deeper until Oswald sank into the taste of his mouth and warmth of Jim’s cheek against the tip of his nose.

He’d thought he could remember how this felt, had played it back so many times that he’d have no problem controlling himself, but this was indescribably better than anything his memory had conjured up and Oswald felt his breath coming faster, his blood running hotter and he was curling his tongue into Jim’s mouth, eager for as much of him as he could -

Time to stop.

Before he could think about it, he sank his teeth into Jim’s lower lip, sharp enough to scare him away, only for Oswald to catch him by the jaw, fingers digging into the flesh and holding him where he wanted.

“The problem is, _Detective_, I can’t take the pleasure you’re offering.” Deftly, his free hand plucked the gun from Jim’s holster and tossed it away. “Didn’t you know that being able to trust the person you’re with not to arrest you is an unbreakable rule of letting them have control?”

His eased his grip enough for Jim to answer - although it wasn’t the one he was looking for.

“What’s with the ‘let’, Oswald?”

“_Penguin._” He dug the tips of his fingers into the bruised side of Jim’s face. “Did you come here thinking we could pick up where we left off? Were you really so naive to think I’d place myself in your hands?”

Jim jerked free, massaging where Oswald’s fingers had turned the skin red.

“Really? You’re going to lecture me about trust?” His eyebrows lifted as high as Oswald had ever seen them go. “The man who’s stabbed everyone he’s ever met in the back? Who pushed the woman who made him off a roof?”

“_I_ made me.” His sentence emerged as a snarl of wounded pride.

“And you’re the only person you’ve not screwed over.” Jim’s voice rose with his temper. “The only person you give a shit about.”

Oswald drew back, lips pressed tight and held his breath long enough that the only sound in the room was the crackle of the logs in the fire.

“Tell me,” Oswald’s voice dropped to a dangerous volume as he fixed Jim with a contemptuous glare. “When was the last time I screwed you over?”

Jim’s reply was to point to the scabs peppering his skin, the swelling along the edge of his jaw, lowering his finger to the bruised ribs hidden beneath his shirt.

Oswald rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t screwing you over, I was getting out of trouble because _you_ arrested me. There’s a difference.”

“And now I’m back on the beat because of it.”

Oswald waved the comment away. He’d got Jim re-instated once, he could do it again, assuming Jim earned it. 

“Try. Again,” he hissed, jaw jutting forward in challenge. “The last time I screwed you over. Name it and I will hand myself over to you completely.”

“Define completely.”

“For you to do what you want. Even if it’s throw me in Blackgate.”

“Or…?”

Oswald raised his eyebrows. “I said for you to do what you want. You’re the only one who knows what that is.”

The look Jim gave him was pure, unadulterated filth and Oswald regretted that he wasn’t going to find out what it entailed. Because Jim Gordon could turn their history inside out, read it its rights and try to beat a confession out of it - the truth was, Jim was the only person Oswald had never screwed over.

Jim frowned, looked like he might have something to say, only for his words to dissolve into a huff of frustration.

“I’m waiting…” Oswald sang.

“You win.” Jim glowered. “Not everyone.”

“You see, Detective, when I call someone a friend, someone who… I don’t know… I owe my life to -” he was grandstanding, now, enjoying himself “- I don’t screw them over. But _you_. You’re different. Your conscience tells you what you can and can’t do -”

“The _law_ tells me what I can do!” Jim shouted back, stepping closer as if to push his point home in person. “The one you seem so hellbent on ignoring.”

“I don’t ignore it. I pay very close attention to it and find a way to make it work in my favour.” They were nose-to-nose now, words flung right at each other’s face. “But you think living by the letter of the law is more important than having a life. You could have had me, days ago, exactly as you wanted me and I would have _let_ you. But when I gave you a choice, you didn’t choose me, you chose the job -”

“I choose my job over everything,” Jim’s bit back. “I always have. I chose it over Barbara, I chose it over Lee -” 

“Well you’re an _idiot_.” Oswald countered. “You think your job will keep you warm and feed you soup when you’re ill and love you when you’re too old to work any more?” Perhaps a little more sentimental than he’d planned, but Oswald carried on. “Assuming this city will even let you get that far.”

“It’s the city I’m doing this for.” Jim stabbed his finger toward the dim light falling from the window behind the desk. “I swore I would serve Gotham and that’s what I’m doing.”

“To serve Gotham is to serve _me_,” Oswald said, triumph lighting his eyes and gilding his words. “Its king.”

“I’m not going to serve you, Oswald. You have your court of criminals and I’m the man trying to bring them to justice.”

But Jim had used the wrong name too many times, poured too much scorn over Oswald’s claim to Gotham. Within the length of a breath, the dagger on Oswald’s desk was in his hand, the blade at Jim Gordon’s throat.

“You will call me Penguin and you will remember that _I_ am the one who has the power here - over you and over Gotham.” He pressed the blade a little more firmly into Jim’s throat. “Now _kneel_.”

Jim didn’t seem to care that there was a knife at his throat any more than Oswald had cared when there was a gun at his. As if each of them were still clinging onto a false belief that the other hadn’t the nerve to make good on his threat.

Except Jim hadn’t, had he? All he’d done was threaten Oswald with an empty chamber. A man with a conscience making the mistake of thinking Oswald was similarly afflicted.

Before Oswald could say anything, maybe draw a little blood to prove his point, Jim wet his lips and lowered his voice.

“OK. You take the knife away from my neck and I’ll play.”

Oswald lowered the knife. Set it down on the desk top, rested his hand next to it and raised his eyebrows, inviting Jim’s next move.

“I can kneel and call you my king, serve you like any other subject. Or…” Jim didn’t take his eyes from Oswald’s “… I can call you Oswald and I can serve you with my mouth.”

He dropped to his knees, head level with Oswald’s hips, face tilted up.

“It’s your turn to choose.”

_You will call me King._

Say it and he’d have power over Jim Gordon the way he had over everyone else.

“You seem a little uncertain,” Jim said, leaning forward, running his nose, his mouth, up the material of Oswald’s pants - a move that revealed Oswald was half-hard already, body as thrilled by the promise as his mind.

Jim pressed his face into him, nuzzling him harder.

_Tell him what you want._

But the words weren’t there. Just the sensation of Jim mouthing at him through his pants and the thought of how good it would feel to have that mouth wrapped all the way around him. 

Jim opened his mouth wider, tilted his head to the side so his mouth sat snug across Oswald’s erection, and he breathed out, a hot press of air through the material that sent a stutter of static across Oswald’s vision, a low, indistinct moan breaking in the back of his throat. 

The second breath came just below the head and Oswald thought he might faint from desire.

“Come to a decision yet?” Jim sat back on his heels, wearing an expression that answered his own question.

Oswald swallowed. Knew there was no hiding this particular weakness. Reaching down, Oswald pulled at the buckle of his belt, not with the hurried desperation he felt, but in slow, measured moves, holding Jim’s gaze the whole while. Leather whirred against the metal of the clasp as he pulled his belt open, before releasing the catch on his pants and drawing down the zipper, tooth-by-tooth, an excruciating exercise in patience that fed the fire in his blood, his need for Jim building for every second he delayed.

When he’d drawn the zip as far as it would go, he took a steadying breath, hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his pants and boxer shorts and drew everything down in one move. Jim broke eye contact, to watch, then looked back up, pupils a little wider.

Oswald held his gaze a moment, letting his face settle into something cold and hard and not to be argued with.

“Your mouth. Now.”

There was a smile in the way Jim looked at him as he leaned in, running his tongue swiftly over his lips as they parted for Oswald to slide into his mouth, deep enough that he felt the hot wet press of Jim’s tongue lap at the tender skin beneath his head…

Oswald clenched his jaw, closed his eyes against the feel of it only to snap them open as Jim drew back, tongue swirling over the tip a second before he pushed forward, pulling him in deeper. 

Controlling himself was hard, but Oswald forced each breath to trickle steadily through his nose. His arms stayed braced to support his weight against the desk, fingers hooked under the edge, digging into the varnish.

And he watched as Jim’s head drew back and pushed forward, cheeks hollowed, lips and tongue wet and willing and so damn _good…_

If it hadn’t been for a furtive, furious session that morning, those pictures on his phone and his own fist for company, this would already be over.

Jim pulled away, tilting his chin so he could look up into Oswald’s eyes. Bringing a hand up, he ran his fingers tenderly down the length of him, before his tongue came out to give a lazy lick around the tip of his cock. Then another, a little faster, a little firmer, and Oswald gripped the desk tighter still, because he didn’t want this to end yet, wanted to know what _all_ Jim’s tricks felt like.

More licking. More tongue, more pressure, more difficult to fight against the heat building inside, but Oswald thought of his hands on the desk, of the need to make this last and he could do it, could hold back…

When Jim next broke contact, he sat back on his heels to lift his hand to his mouth and run his tongue over his palm, until the skin gleamed with his saliva. Then, not breaking eye contact, he spat on the ends of his fingers.

Everything in Oswald contracted. A sharp twist in his muscles and his mind.

Jim allowed a moment of anticipation before he slid his hand, palm flat to the underside of Oswald’s cock, all the way along his length, mouth chasing after, swallowing him up, until Jim’s hand cupped his balls and squeezed, tugging him gently, drawing an involuntary breath from Oswald’s lungs. Then his hand slid further, fingers pressing firmly along his perineum, inching back and back and…

As Jim took him so deep that Oswald could feel the press of his throat, his finger found what he’d been searching for and pushed up, in, just enough to destabilize Oswald’s control. One hand lunged forward to scrape at Jim’s scalp, fingers snarling in his hair, tugging at him and Jim let out a low, happy hum that resonated through the whole of Oswald’s body. Without the other hand clamped to the desk he couldn’t have stayed standing.

“_Jim._” 

He’d not meant to say it, had been fighting hard against the urge to return to that name, but it was the right one, the one that spurred Jim into a deep, insistent rhythm, his finger circling and pressing, teasing in the most exquisite way and Oswald couldn’t stop his body from responding, hips rolling in time with Jim’s mouth, and his tongue - _fuck_ \- his tongue -

This time it wasn’t a tremble of mounting pressure, but an explosion that sent shockwaves through every cell of his body, had him thrusting forward into Jim’s mouth, not caring about how uncomfortably deep he must have gone. His hand fisted sharply in Jim’s hair, then splayed out again in a spasm of ecstasy.

Breath scalded the back of his throat as Oswald opened his mouth to draw the air in and let out the groan that he’d held pinned against his tongue. 

When he looked down, Jim had pulled back to lap up every last drop and Oswald’s eyes grew wide at the thought of what had just happened, how he’d just come in Jim’s mouth and…

The hand in his hair slid down to knot of Jim’s tie to pull him up from his knees until Jim’s lips were on his, then forced apart so Oswald could thrust his tongue deep into Jim’s mouth, taste himself on the other’s man’s tongue. It was the filthiest kiss he’d ever had, and the taste and the thought and the feel of it had him lunging in deeper still, so deep he felt like he was trying to drown in Jim Gordon’s face.

He pulled back enough to draw breath and then pushed in again, pulling Jim by the neck of his tie, stopping him from escaping - not that it seemed he wanted to, because Jim was kissing him back with as much force, as much unchecked need. Jim had his hands on the back of Oswald’s head, fingers running through his hair, but then he broke away, just at the lips, pressing his forehead into Oswald’s, eyes wide open and searching.

“There’s the man I came here to see.”

Jim’s face glowed with delight, as if he was looking at every Christmas present on every list he’d ever written and then they were kissing again, Oswald still with one hand clamped to his desk, the other fisted in Jim’s tie, but Jim’s were all over him, running up the back of his head so that he was moaning into Jim’s mouth, one finding its way under the hem of his shirt, thumb running circles across his hip bone.

Oswald sucked on Jim’s tongue, pulled at his bottom lip with his teeth and smiled at the result, the groans and scrape of nails across his scalp.

“How about you serve me with something other than your mouth?” Oswald murmured into Jim’s lips. There was a cigar box in the top drawer of his desk containing some lube he kept on hand for personal use…

“How about instead of being so greedy -” Jim let go of his hip, brought both hands up to cradle his head as he kissed Oswald’s cheek, sucked on his ear and then remembered that they were talking and pulled back just enough to make eye contact. “- you give a little of what you’ve been getting? Hm?”

Oswald frowned. “I don’t -”

“I know you don’t, which is why I’m asking.” Jim kissed his lips, his cheek, but his words had tarnished the magic, clouding Oswald’s confidence with doubt, and he was pulling back, prickled pride rapidly heating to anger.

“You misunderstand who’s in charge.” 

Jim sighed, hands sweeping lightly down the back of his head until they were resting on his shoulders.

“Are we still doing that?”

“Was there a point in time when you thought we weren’t?”

Jim took a breath.

“When you let me have control, all I did was find as many ways as possible to touch you.” His fingers curled against the material of Oswald’s jacket. “With my hands, my tongue… I kissed every part of you that I could reach. I was the one calling the shots and I used every one of ’em to bring you pleasure. Now you’re in charge and all you want is for me to suck your cock and fuck your ass. Shit, Oswald, are you going to make me _beg?_”

Oswald felt dangerously light headed. Correction: he felt dangerous. 

“Beg for what, Jim?”

Jim stared at him a moment longer as he wrestled with his pride.

“I want you to touch me. I want your hands on my skin, not my tie, or that desk. When you ran your fingers through my hair I could have come there and then. All the time I’m not with you, that’s what I think about, your skin against mine, your hands in my hair, your nails digging into my back. Kissing you turns me on so much that I can’t help wanting to know what else you can do with your tongue and your lips, and I am so fucking _desperate_ for you that I will take anything you want to give me.” Jim swallowed, cast a glance down to where Oswald’s hand rested on his tie, then back up to his face. “This is me begging you to _touch_ me.”

Oswald pursed his lips, his teeth grinding together as he considered the request. A minute ago he’d have granted it without a second thought, would have been glad to, but Jim’s words had wounded him - the way he’d called him greedy, that patronising little _I know you don’t…_. Jim might be able to compromise his pride for his lust, but Oswald’s pride was a resentful beast that he couldn’t always control.

Jim leaned in, lips brushing across his cheekbone until he was close enough to whisper, “Come on… don’t you want to know what it’s like to pleasure someone else?”

It was the worst thing he could have said.

In a flash, Oswald jerked Jim’s tie tighter, his other hand already closed around the handle of his dagger, the flat of the blade pressed against Jim’s jawline.

“Maybe you’re right.” The words hissed out through his teeth, laden with as much menace as the blade in his hand and he felt Jim tense against him. “I don’t have much…” His gaze flicked away from Jim’s a moment as if he were searching for the right word before he pinned him with a venomous glare. “…_experience_ bringing other people pleasure.” 

He’d never had chance. Beyond the disappointing blow job there had been a girl, once, who’d taken pity on him and then, inevitably herself. He wasn’t ashamed of it, not until Jim had brought it up. 

“But do you know what I _am_ good at, Jim? Mm?”

He pressed the knife into Jim’s cheek, felt the manic flare of his own eyes, the speed of the breaths he was dragging in.

Jim said nothing. Proving smart for once.

“I am very good at bringing pain.”And he twisted the dagger in his hand, just a touch, letting the edge of the blade scrape against Jim’s skin like a razor. “So when you beg me to touch you, this might be the path I have to follow to find out how to pleasure you.”

Jim’s breath was coming fast, the way it had when he’d been holding a gun to Oswald’s head.

“OK,” Jim whispered, pupils blown beneath lowered eyelids, like he was drunk on what he was seeing.

Oswald twitched a frown. “I don’t think you understand. I’m saying that I would _hurt_ you, Jim Gordon, just so I could lick your wounds before I fucked the pain away.” 

“I understand.” Words that came with the speed of yearning. “And I told you that I will take anything you want to give me. So if that’s what you need to do to touch me, I can take it.”

Without warning, Jim jerked his chin, the blade drawing across his skin, blood beading in its wake. His pupils were so dilated there was barely any iris left, his breathing ragged, and the sight left Oswald momentarily stunned. 

“You said something about licking…”

Drawing the knife away, he brought his lips to Jim’s face, bit his chin, just below where he’d been cut, then, slowly, stuck his tongue out to lick along the line of Jim’s jaw, tasting the trace of blood and pushing away the sensible part of his brain that was trying to tell him this was a terrible way to tend a wound.

“More,” Jim murmured as Oswald pulled away.

“More what?”

“Of you. Please.”

Now he had Jim pliant and begging, Oswald found he didn’t want to stop. He licked Jim’s cut again, dragged his lips up the side of his face as Jim leaned in closer with a groan. Oswald’s free hand reached up around the back of his head, pulled him in and Oswald set his teeth around Jim’s earlobe, sucked hard, nibbled, then bit, pulling at the flesh.

Jim huffed, pushed his body in close, grinding his erection into Oswald’s thigh.

“I didn’t say you could do that,” Oswald murmured into his ear, fingers curling through Jim’s hair and yanking his head up to expose the length of his throat. He held him there, staring at the hammer of his pulse, before bringing his lips a whisper away from the skin, letting his breath sigh down the channel of Jim’s neck.

He gripped the knife and closed his eyes against the thought of how easy it would be make Jim bleed.

There came the rumble of a groan in Jim’s throat when Oswald finally brought his lips to his neck, mouth open to suck at the flesh, scraping his teeth over skin too taut to get any purchase. There wasn’t enough of him to taste and his collar was in the way…

Pushing him back, Oswald lifted the knife, sawed through the material of Jim’s tie, then tugged the buttons free -

“Dammit.” Oswald scowled at the wife-beater underneath. Snicking the neckline, he gave the material a tug tearing it down to the hem, eyes greedy for what he’d find beneath, the photo on his phone made real.

When he saw it, he stopped, taking in how Jim’s chest rose with each breath, the tensed stomach and light smattering of hair. Jim was gorgeous in ways that Oswald would never be. Strong, muscles hard beneath flesh soft enough to sink your teeth into if he weren’t too perfect to touch…

“For god’s sake, Oz…”

Oswald flickered a disapproving glance at him for that.

“We compromised on Oswald. Remember?”

But Jim wasn’t listening because he was grabbing Oswald’s hand, pulling it roughly towards his body, forcing Oswald’s palm against the plain of his stomach. 

“_Touch me._”

And he did. Not with the reverence he felt, but with fury and desire, digging his nails deep into Jim’s skin, clawing ferocious red weals across his ribs, pinching at his nipple and smiling at the cry he got for it. 

One hand wasn’t enough.

Letting the knife drop to the floor, Oswald brought his other hand up, soothing over where the first had raged and then he was bending to suck on Jim’s clavicle, his hands running across Jim’s chest, around his sides, pinching and clawing as if his fingers were trying to devour him, only getting greedier, more desperate every time Jim winced or whimpered because Jim was _his_ now and Oswald intended to stamp his mark all over his body the way he’d ordered his insignia stitched into the tie that hung, severed, from Jim’s collar.

Jim was writhing against him, and every breath was a moan or a plea, the words too indistinct for Oswald to hear over the rush of his own breath and the heady sensation of having Jim entirely at his mercy. He slid his hand down, palmed Jim’s cock through the material of his pants, running his fingers over him and feeling the heat of the friction, listening to the gasp that came, then the words that followed.

“I want you so fucking much, Oswald…”

“You do?”

“Jesus Christ, can’t you tell?” Jim laughed and ground himself against Oswald’s hand, his own running up under Oswald’s shirt, fingertips brushing up the curve of his ass and - 

From behind there came the sound of logs shifting in the fireplace, then a metallic clang of something bouncing out of the fire and rolling across the hearth.

Even as Oswald turned to look, Jim was pulling him to the floor seconds before the room flashed a brilliant white and the world fell apart. 

If the bang of the traffic accident had been loud, it was nothing compared to this - an explosion that tore through every fibre of his body - then there was smoke, heat and the sound his office disintegrating around him.

Jim was talking, but Oswald couldn’t hear - not that he needed to. They had to get out, which meant pulling his pants back up - as he did, his hand nudged the dagger, the blade slicing across his knuckles. Grabbing the knife in one hand, he let Jim haul him standing with the other.

Nothing on the far side of the desk remained, his chair blown to splinters, plaster falling from the brickwork and the panes of the window blown out in a shower of glass. Anything that could burn was alight - splintered wood, the papers blown free from the drawers of his desk - the smoke scraping a bitter path down the back of his throat.

If Jim hadn’t shoved him to the floor, Oswald wouldn’t be in any state to get away.

“_Your gun._” The words felt loud in his mouth, but quiet in his head, drowned out by the ringing. Jim hadn’t heard, but Oswald knew better than to leave that room without both being armed. He dived for the handle of the gun, just visible beneath what was left of one of the chairs and shoved it untidily into Jim’s hand.

Jim looked down at his weapon, clicked the safety off and nodded.

“_Door?_” He pointed as he spoke, but Oswald shook his head. Whoever had shoved an explosive down the chimney wouldn’t leave it at that - the corridor beyond was narrow, a bottleneck leading up the stairs or out the fire exit. If Oswald had planned this raid, that would be where he’d position the biggest guns.

Instead, he pointed through the smoke to where the glass had blown out of the window. It wasn’t an easy climb, which meant the enemy would be less inclined to guard it and the smoke, thick and grey would give them some cover. They shoved what was left of the desk over the wall, Oswald waving Jim up first - when he protested, Oswald tapped his knife on the barrel of Jim’s gun.

“_Better cover than a knife_.”

An ungainly scramble and Jim was out, then reaching back to help pull Oswald up - his leg twinged painfully as his foot scraped against the wall, trying to get some leverage - but he was slimmer than Jim, his chest and stomach protected beneath waistcoat and shirt, making it easier to wriggle out across beads of glass that gleamed red with Jim’s blood.

The man himself was already standing, clothes hanging smoke-stained and tattered, gun raised as he swung round, scanning the alley, smoke billowing out from the window to shroud him.

Coughing, Oswald stood, reaching for the phone still in his inside pocket, wondering where his men were and if there would be someone close enough to be any use…

A bullet glanced off the brickwork next to his head and Oswald ducked, too late, obviously, but it was enough to get him moving, edging quickly away from where the shot had come, knife in one hand when the shotgun buried under the debris of the hearth would have been better, fumbling his phone in the other as he tried to dial Butch -

Where the hell was Jim?

“JIM!” Oswald shouted as loud as he could, spinning round, baffled by the smoke. “Come on!”

Another gunshot from the same gun as before and then two shots, much louder, fired from the gun that had interrupted his meeting.

Typical.

Cops were too stupid to realise that the way to survive was to run _away_ from danger, not headlong into it.

Giving the sky above a scornful glare, as if anything other than Jim’s own bone-headedness was to blame, Oswald turned back, breaking into a hurried half run, favouring speed over stealth. Then ahead, out of the smoke, a man stood with his back to Oswald - definitely not Jim - arm angled down at someone on the floor.

“Tell me where Penguin is…” He was shouting his question loud enough for Jim to hear him.

Loud enough for Oswald.

“I’m right_here_.” 

His dagger was through the man’s neck before he could turn. Drawing it out he stabbed him again, twice and shoved him to the floor, turning to see if Jim needed a hand up.

Except he needed more than a hand.

There, lying on the floor, was Jim Gordon, body covered in scrapes and cuts, torso more bruise than skin, one hand clamped to his shoulder. Blood seeped out through his fingers and when Oswald bent to whisper his name, there was no response.


End file.
